Some Mornings
by EvayAlmighty
Summary: Some mornings are worse than others. Peeta helps Katniss get through even the most unbearable times. A post-Mockingjay Everlark one-shot.


I don't know how long I have been awake. Peeta's arm feels heavy on my side as it lies across me but I can't bring myself to move it. I can't bring myself to do anything, even speak. I just lay here, wallowing in my own self-loathing and misery that often comes when the sun rises. Eventually Peeta stirs, and I hear his sleepy mumbles directed at me, but I don't answer. His fingers lazily brush against my cheek and when his skin sticks to mine I realize my cheeks are stained with the residue of tears. I was crying? I hadn't even known.

When he strokes my arm, I don't respond. This is just one of his many tests to see what kind of state I will be in the morning. Some mornings—most mornings—I relish his touch, rolling to face him and burying into his chest, taking in his scent and his warmth and instantly filling with love. Some mornings I am disgusted, feeling completely unworthy of intimacy and lash out at him, screaming and running from the bed. This morning, I do neither. This morning I am empty.

Peeta notices and moves on to the next test. So many tests, as if there was a checklist he had to go through every morning just so that I can function properly. His broken, robotic doll. He leans over my shoulder and practically overshadows my entire body, trying to look into my eyes. He whispers, brushing his lips along my earlobe. "Katniss?" he asks, with a little too much concern in his voice.

_Leave me alone_, I say.

He repeats my name, almost as if he didn't hear me. I can see from my peripherals that his eyes are widening in panic, and he places one of his large hands on my shoulders and presses so that I roll onto my back. I don't meet his gaze, I stare at the ceiling. No, not the ceiling. Passed it, I am looking into the sky, into the stars. Into that black emptiness that envelopes each and every one of us. I wonder if and when that darkness won't just constrict around us one day and suffocate whatever light there is left. Peeta leans over me and obstructs my vision, purposefully placing himself between me and that cruel, heartless darkness. Maybe he sees it too and he is trying to protect me from it, shielding me from it like he does with almost everything else. The thought suddenly makes me sick to myself, sick to my weakness.

_I'm just thinking Peeta_, I practically growl. _Just leave me alone_.

Peeta completely dismisses my demand and runs his palms along my cheeks and forehead, whispering my name repeatedly and asking how I am feeling and other questions I am sick of listening to.

_JUST LEAVE ME_! I scream at him this time. I don't deserve this attention and I don't want it. I want to tear my nails across his stupid, wonderful face for ignoring me even when I'm yelling at him. He leans in to kiss my neck, and it isn't until I gasp in protest, and feel the ripping of my chapped lips as they part, bound by the glue of my saliva from being so tightly pressed together all throughout the night that I realize I haven't even opened my mouth once this morning. No wonder Peeta hasn't heard me. Maybe I am an Avox; a self-appointed one.

When I don't answer him, he sighs and rests his forehead to mine. He brushes my bangs before he scoops my braid into his hand and traces each individual weave while it slides through his fingers. He forces a smile but I know him enough to see the pain in it, in his faltering blue eyes. "Let's take a bath Katniss. Would you like that?"

His offer is not sexual. Peeta and I have intimately showered and bathed together on several occasions, but never in the mornings. Mornings are lethal. Unlike Peeta, who only experiences his attacks as the result of a catalyst, something he sees or hears that reminds him of his time in the Capitol, I naturally wake up rotten. A good morning means a good day, in most cases. But these mornings, Peeta feels he has to absolve whatever it is that is devouring my insides or else I will wither away by night. He has found that baths relax me, at least to an extent, and he has been experimenting with different soaps and scents to strengthen its potency. He does so much, he always does so much for me. He is always rescuing me. So when I eventually look, really look into his eyes now and see his pain, a pain caused from trying to help me, I finally manage in a dry, cracking voice, "Yes."

The single word appears to spark something in his eyes, something like hope maybe, because he instantly springs from the bed and picks me up in his arms. I fall limp in his grasp, but he is careful while we rush to the bathroom. I hate myself on these mornings. I miss the independent person I used to be. I hate having to be carted around and tended to. I hate relying on Peeta. But I am so thankful, because when I think about just a couple of years ago when I had first returned to District 12, I know I would be dead if he had never returned to me. I try to express my gratitude, but nothing comes from my lips.

Peeta sets me onto the edge of the tub and lovingly caresses my cheek before he starts to remove my clothes. I normally blush whenever he does this, but the blood in my capillaries can't even seem to make an appearance this morning. He doesn't stare, because right now he is working. He crouches down onto his knees and I want to tell him not to, because I know how hard it is with his bad leg. I want to tell him I can do the rest myself, but I'm not so sure I can. After he removes the last of my garments he folds them into a neat pile on the counter.

He places a hand on my thigh as he leans over the tub to start the faucet. He always does this, has to have one hand somewhere on me at all times, as if he is trying to keep me from slipping off the face of the earth. I allow it, because sometimes I'm convinced that if he lets go I just might. He is pouring soaps and special salts into the water and I feel his thumb gently stroking my skin back and forth. This is done out of habit, I'm not even sure if he is aware that he does it. Some mornings I hate it because I can feel each time his thumb gets caught on the groove of one of my scars and it reminds me of how tattered and ugly I am.

The scarred flesh and artificial skin has made it so hair can no longer grow on my legs. I am sort of relieved for that now, that I have someone who must place his hands on me so often. I used to enjoy the natural growth, just because it made me feel more comfortable and at home with myself. I never worried about my looks back then. Before I was placed into this new body, pieced together from patches of pinks and whites like a quilt. Hairless skin… at least I have one less thing to worry about now.

As if he is reading my mind, Peeta briefly takes a break from whatever it is he is doing to place a few tender kisses along the scars on my arm. I glance at him, and it's strange. When his lips are pressed at just the right spot, the scar on my arm appears to connect with the scar that runs across his cheek. Like we are one glass that has been splintered. I want to take him in my arms and look at our reflection; I want to see if all of our scars connect, as more evidence that we must have been created from the same material. Like we are puzzle pieces that fit together. Instead I sit there and watch him. The moment his lips leave my flesh his scars become almost invisible to me. They never disappear of course, but I do not notice them. When I look at Peeta I see Peeta. He says this about me but my scars are too hideous and too numerous for him to truly be able to look past them. Aren't they?

He pours something into the bath and immediately my nostrils are filled with the warm, comfortable scent of sandalwood. I don't know how Peeta discovered the scents that I love, understands my preference to warm spicy scents than any others. I refuse floral perfumes. I want nothing to do with flowers, save for the primroses Peeta planted in our back garden. I've made it clear I want no flowers in my life. The smell makes me sick and only brings back memories that make me collapse and scream for hours. Instead he indulges my senses with sandalwood and honey, and when I close my eyes and tilt my head back to enjoy it, I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

Peeta must have noticed because I hear him sigh sadly under his breath and he turns off the tap and undresses before I have even opened my eyes. He scoops me up into his arms bridal style and I lean into his chest, even though I should be worried that he will slip or that the weight will be too much on his leg. But it never is. He steps into the bath and carefully slinks down, adjusting his hold on me and I try to help him but I can't seem to make myself move. Eventually, after fumbling and rearranging, he lies against one end of the bath and holds me, my back to his chest, and we rest in the hot, oily water for what seems like years. The water does wonders and I can feel all of my aches start to fade the more my body is submerged. At first Peeta just holds me, keeping his arms linked around me.

He then removes his hands and starts to cup water in them and gently pours it over my shoulders and neck and chest, any part of me that is left exposed. His hands glide up and down my skin, cleansing my flesh of any dirt or sweat I may have accumulated since my last bath. He seems to wash away whatever filth is infesting my mind as well. I rest my head against one of his shoulders while he balls his hands into fists and uses his knuckles and nails to scrub and exfoliate my skin. It feels wonderful and I can't help but let out a sigh. When his hands slip away I feel lost and I think I'm about to beg for him to continue before he interrupts me.

"I'm going to wash your hair now Katniss, is that okay?" he talks so slowly and softly, as if raising his voice to a normal level could shatter me. I force myself to speak again, "Yes Peeta." It feels good saying his name. It's still difficult to speak but as the minutes pass I can feel my throat opening and my lips moving more freely. He untangles my braid and combs through my hair with his fingers first, then reaches for a bowl that we keep beside the tub and fills it with water. I close my eyes, tilt my chin up and he places his hand to my head so that his fingers are splayed across my forehead before he pours the water through my tangled locks. "You're talking a lot more," he says, gathering up soap on his palms. "I'm so glad." He lathers the substance into my scalp and I instantly almost purr from the sensation.

When he's finished and my hair is rinsed, we rest against each other again. I've managed to regain control of my motor functions, and I stroke his forearm as it hangs across my entire torso. I encourage myself to speak again. Peeta deserves this much. "I like this," I breathe, and I can tell just by the way he shifts that Peeta is surprised by my sudden declaration. "I love this," I correct myself. I tilt my head so I can look into his eyes. "I love you." He smiles and hugs me tightly, brushing his nose into my ear as he desperately tries not to nuzzle into it full force. He must still be taking precautions, worried that I will feel smothered by his affection. Earlier I would have, but that tension is gone.

"Oh I love you," he returns, and I can hear him smiling. Peeta doesn't deserve just a sentence or two from me. He deserves so much more. My eyes snap open and I quickly roll around to face him, our chests press together. My sudden alertness must have startled him because he practically jumps when we make eye contact.

"I have to wash you now," it's more of a statement than a question. His face has reddened, probably from the forcefulness of my request and my new position, pressed chest to chest, hips to hips between his legs. He tries to brush it off, still concerned for me, "It's okay Katniss, I ca-"

"I want to," I tell him. I do. I'm not some lifeless body who can't do anything on her own. "Let me." He stares at me for a few moments before feigning a dramatic sigh of defeat. Playful Peeta. I love it.

He grips onto my shoulders and pushes me up so that I am sitting upright, and he follows as well. He's smiling as he looks at me, and when I see that smile I don't know how I could feel so empty in what I think was less than an hour ago. I fill the bowl with water and reach to hold it above his head. He has to crouch down due to his height, and when I shower him his light, soft blond hair instantly transforms into a dark golden curtain of hair that shields his face from my vision. No, I need to see his face again. I need to see that smile again.

I slowly raise my hand, dipping it under the veil of golden, heavy hair before brushing it off Peeta's face. The wet hair molds to the shape of my motion and his locks freeze in place, pointing every which way like the rays of the sun. As I unmask him, Peeta looks up into my eyes and smiles a toothy smile, trying to hide his laughter. And his hair is spikey and everywhere. And his eyes are locked and vibrant. And he looks somewhat insane. And I love him.

A large grin breaks across my face, and that must have been all Peeta can bear because he suddenly lunges forward and crushes his lips into mine. He kisses me over and over and over and the kiss is awkward but so wonderful because we both can't stop smiling. He keeps kissing me even as I try to reach behind him and grab the soap and pour it into my hands. I have to close my eyes as his lips brush across my eyelids, along my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, across my cheeks, my jaw, and I both laugh and gasp when his lips press to the underside of my chin. "Peeta!" I exclaim at last, finally finding my voice again. He laughs softly to himself before leaning back again, his eyes instantly locking with mine. His eyes are half lidded and yet they seem brighter than I can remember.

I lather the soap into his hair, using my nails to work it into his scalp, and the sound that rumbles from his chest makes my heart leap. When I go to rinse his hair, I try to shield his face the way he does for me, placing my fingers across his forehead and tilting his head back. He's too tall, or I'm too short, and it doesn't work. I sit up on my knees to accommodate the height difference but the surface of the tub is so slippery I crash forward into him and we both fall into the water. When we resurface we are both laughing and it is so genuine and warm that I want to cry.

He takes my face in his hands. "See, this is why I don't let you wash my hair," he only teases, but then he kisses me, deeply and so full of love I feel like I will burst. And I kiss him. And I smile, because I know today will be a good day.


End file.
